


All Right, Mr. De Mille

by britomart_is



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescence is Awkward, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always Female Sam, Cunnilingus, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester UST, Dean is a Good Brother, F/M, Feminist Dean Winchester, Flirting, Genderswap, Oral Sex, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Sublimating Feelings, Underage Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Young Sam Winchester, triangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britomart_is/pseuds/britomart_is
Summary: Sam's thighs are controversial. They're a matter of public debate.[Sam is, and always has been, a girl. Underage sexuality (high school). UST with a side of UST.]





	

Sam's fifteen in Knock Knee, Arizona when she shoplifts a lipstick named Harlot Red. She palms the plastic tube and slides it smoothly into the pocket of khaki shorts she outgrew a year ago. There'll be no new clothes till the crossbow's paid off, Sam's long past the age when she willingly wore Dean's boy-shapeless castoffs, and the shorts are verging on indecently small now. At fifteen she can still get away with it, mostly, but the neighborhood gazes have already begun a silent tug-of-war over Sam's body, her long-and-getting-longer stretch of tanned legs. Sam's thighs are controversial. They're a matter of public debate. There's Mrs. Herbert next door: _child in a desert summer growth spurts too fast to keep her in clothes fleeting months staying out past dusk coming home mosquito-bitten and sunburned I remember it I remember the sweetness of the lemonade_. And there's Marv behind the counter at the convenience store: _girl knows exactly what she's doing look at those legs look how she dresses she wants you to fucken look she wants it_.

Sam leans into the dingy white porcelain of the bathroom sink, lets it cool the exposed skin where her shirt rides up. The Harlot Red is sweating, bleeding in the heat of the day after riding home safe in her pocket, and it doesn't want to stay in place no matter how carefully Sam shapes the O of her mouth as she traces it, no matter how steady her gun hand is. 

She licks a stray smudge of red off her teeth and pushes out a pout in the mirror. Then she smiles wide and likes the look of it, thinks _that's good, right_? She can't be sure, but that smile is good, she thinks. Sam tries to let her mouth fall into a casual position of lushness, but her face always wants to leap into expressions, into flashes of humor and interest and pique, features sharp and mobile. 

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. De Mille," she tells the mirror. Sam doesn't know what that's from. It's from a movie, some movie. "I'm ready," she says, and gets distracted by the way Harlot Red is creeping outside the boundaries of where she drew it. 

The print of her lips goes on a square of toilet paper, and the paper flushes down the toilet where Dean won't find it and laugh. 

When Sam looks back at her red-free face in the mirror, it looks barer than it was in the first place.

#

Everybody knows that you have to make a calculated decision about the elastic waistband on the track team's uniform shorts. Leave them as they are (good enough to be a serious athlete, boring enough to actually do all her history reading, or the kind who prays over cafeteria fish-sticks), rolled over once (middle-of-the-road), rolled over twice (the privileged class of hotties), or rolled over three times (asking for trouble).

Sam, certainly not a member of the group entitled to do so, rolls her waistband over twice. It can't really get worse for her anyway, it's been slyly extended tripping feet in the hallway and the sibilant venom of _Slut_ behind her back and to her face even from the beginning – she's new, good grades on her tests like neon signs, never wears shoes she can't break into a sprint in, clothes shrouded in that musty Goodwill smell, no good at making friends with other girls and maybe just tired of trying. 

They'll be moving again soon, anyway. 

Sam lies on her back, grass tickling her neck, and lets the assistant coach Scott, a blond college boy with beautiful calf muscles, help her stretch out her hamstrings. She wonders what he'd think if he knew how strong she is. That she could pin these girls, grapple them into a submission hold, arm to windpipe till they drooped limp. Wonders what Scott would think if he knew she could beat him in a fight. 

Dean picks her up from practice and asks how school was, and he's so fucking _smug_ like he knows the first thing about her, like she's just this little geek. Like she's gonna run and tell big brother she got a gold star (But she always had, hadn't she? And he'd fixed her spelling tests to the refrigerator with chewing gum, left the pink sticky wad there when they moved on.)

" _Peachy_ ," Sam says, and slouches to rest her feet on the dash, knees bent awkwardly, nearly curled into a ball. 

Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "When'd you turn into such a little bitch?" Sam twists away from him to look out the window and is horrified by the knot of feeling catching in her throat, because it's just fucking _Dean_. "Tell you what, you see my cute little kid sister hangin' around anywhere, tell her I want her back. Her replacement's a real pain in the ass." 

Sam slumps a little deeper. She used to be able to curl in a compact ball wherever she went, sitting on her feet in diner booths and tucking in against Dean's side on the couch . She didn't used to take up so much _space_. 

Dean sighs. "You want fucking pizza for dinner?"

Sam twists to look back over her shoulder, watches Dean's eyes flicker over the road, takes the peace offering. "Yeah. No pepperoni." 

"You fucking love pepperoni." 

"Track diet. No red meat. Coach said." 

Dean snorts. "Coach said," he mimics. "Right, pizza's healthy as shit, but no pepperoni." He takes his eyes off the road, glances over at Sam. "Fine! Jesus. No pepperoni."

Sam smiles secretly against the window glass and watches the road roll by, pothole after pothole.

#

If Sam had been born a boy, she wouldn't always cross the finish line, panting, a second after Dad clicked off the stopwatch with a frown. She wouldn't always collapse on the pavement, arms shaking, one pushup from the end of the set. She wouldn't always come up ever so slightly short. She wouldn't find herself pinned during sparring with Dean, and look up from the dirt to see that look in Dad's eyes. She wouldn't run extra miles every day for a month and still disappoint him.

If she'd been born a boy she could roll into every new town just like Dean does, swagger down each new hallway, charm the girls and make the guys burn with envy and admiration. She could wear the rips in her clothes with an easy grin and a cocked eyebrow. 

If she'd been born a boy she wouldn't be too tall and muscled and scarred. Her own body wouldn't revolt against her, grow too quickly to keep up, sprout angles and curves that don't feel like _hers_. 

If she'd been born a boy she wouldn't be stuck at home when Dean and Dad go off on the really dangerous hunts, watching the door, waiting for the phone call. She wouldn't hear "you're too young" and know it's really "you're too weak." 

If she'd been born a boy, she wouldn't look at Dean, already shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip with her, and want to be closer. She wouldn't want to crawl inside his skin to sate her craving. 

If she'd been born a boy she wouldn't be so angry all the time. She wouldn't feel this life like a bear trap, its steel teeth slowly closing around the soft skin of her ankle while she just stands there dumber than the dumbest wild beast and _lets it_.

If Sam had been born a boy, everything would have been different.

#

On Sam's fake ID she's a twenty-two year-old from Nevada. In bars, she's a bubbly naïf who doesn't know how to play pool until suddenly, she really really can. To state troopers, she's earnest and concerned and too sweet-faced to be distracting them on purpose.

Then she goes home and Dean puts her in a headlock and starts groaning about toxic gas the moment she takes a bite of her burrito and never flips the channel when it goes past Animal Planet because he knows she likes stupid animal shows with cuddly mammals and ravenous sharks. He doesn't pull his punches when they're sparring, he has exactly zero sense of personal space with arms slung around her shoulders and feet in her lap and poking the spot beneath her ribs that makes her shriek. He calls her Sammy and Shortstop and Stringbean and only freaked out a little bit the first time he threw her training bras in the laundry with his sweat-stained t-shirts. Dean has a million nicknames for her but she only ever has to be one Sam with him, the Sam she is when nobody's looking.

#

Dad's in Utah and Dean's hustling a poker game and Sam's in a back storeroom with the bartender who kept refilling her glass with pale, lukewarm beer while she wrote her World History essay longhand in a spiral notebook at the bar. Sam's squirming and the guy's hand is down the front of her jeans and the shelves at her back are cutting into her where her shirt's rucked up. She's exactly as drunk as she planned to be and she's got a nervous sweat on her forehead and she kind of thinks _might as well get it over with_.

The bartender pushes down on her shoulders, pushes harder when she doesn't get the clue which _oh_ she suddenly does, and jesus, not quite what she—but fine, okay, gotta learn sometime, so she gets on her knees and wonders if she's going to be any good at this, but she never finds out because the bartender is bleeding from the mouth, and Dean is bleeding from the knuckles. 

Kneeling in front of Dean with her shirt off and the Y of her zipper just barely exposing cotton panties, Sam feels like a little kid caught dressing up in her mother's clothing, trying on too-big high heels, except Sam never had the chance to totter around in her mother's heels, did she? Sam searches Dean's face for anger and only sees utter bewilderment, like he's just walked in on Sam teaching gorillas to use sign language. 

Dean turns the heat way up in the car, like she's hypothermic and shivering under a blanket in the backseat, even though she's not. He drives in silence till they're the only headlights on the blacktop. "Did you want to blow that guy?"

"God, Dean, shut _up_ ," she says, but instead of pressing against the window like she's trying to ooze right out of the car in a puddle of embarrassment, she flops on the seat, faces him. "Maybe." 

Dean spares a glance over at her, brow furrowed. He grunts and turns his attention back to the road. Sam watches the ghostly stripe of the centerline snaking out of the darkness ahead, the glow of a deer crossing sign, and thinks the conversation is over until Dean glides the car into its space and sits there with the keys in the ignition as the engine pings. "Just be sure that you want it. _Maybe_ doesn't cut it."

Sam freezes with her fingers curled around the door handle. "Oh my god, are we having a _talk_?"

"And not with that guy," Dean says, and his bloodied knuckles flex around the steering wheel. 

"He was nice," Sam says, which is kind of bullshit because he seemed nice enough, but he seemed like the kind of nice enough that fucks fifteen year-olds, and that's why she was in the storeroom with him anyway. Dean already thinks she's some wide-eyed kid taking candy from strangers and maybe she shouldn't encourage him by saying stupid shit like _he was nice_.

"He was a pedophile."

"I coulda taken him." 

Dean snorts. "I don't doubt it." He fixes her with a stare, the same one that says _Sammy, you could've hit that bullseye every time if you weren't trying to piss Dad off_ , and says, "Just don't be a dumbass. Cause you're not one." 

Sometimes Dean says stuff like that and it's just really hard to argue with him. Suddenly overcome by the urge, Sam flings her arms around Dean's shoulders and buries her face in his coat-leather. "Thanks, Dean," she says into his collar.

To her surprise, Dean crushes her closer. "You scared the _crap_ out of me, you little dipshit."

#

On certain subjects at least, once wisdom has issued from Dean's mouth, Sam takes it as gospel. Not that Dean can ever know that. Ever.

 _Be sure you want it_. It's infuriating, is what it is – Sam could follow any other dictate, run down a list of sex acts and check off the permissible ones, put the rest out of her mind. But now she has to do what she wants. It's not something she's really thought about. Sam is not, in fact, entirely sure what the things are that she _could_ want. 

Which is why she's crouched in the hallway, knees on the carpet, eye to the crack between door and frame. 

The woman has her hand on the front of Dean's pants. She's leaning down, and Dean is guiding her back up with a palm curved around the back of her neck. "Ladies first," Dean says. 

Then Sam is watching the woman's bare toes curling in the air and hearing her noises. She's watching the muscles play in Dean's back, catching glimpses of his head rising from between the woman's knees when he rumbles things Sam can't make out. Dean hides himself in the center of this woman, face shadowed between her legs, voice quieted and replaced by these _noises_ , messy and wet and so unabashedly _physical_ , so _of the body_ that Sam wants to run away, mortified. It's like seeing Dean pee. It's like seeing the muscle beneath his skin when he's cut deep. 

Dean emerges from the shadows when the woman is slack and splayed, her chest rising again and again and again. Dean's back to Sam, Sam watches the little hitches and shifts of repositioning, like when Dean's lining up a shot with the sniper rifle, and then Dean's body jolts decisively forward ( _in_ , Sam's mind hisses) like a stabbing, and Sam does run away then, tumbles back from the door and hurries to her room with her hand clapped over her mouth. 

Sam sleeps that night with her hand cupped between her legs, motionless, protective, a focus always drawing her attention back to her warmth, to the clutch of her own thighs.

#

Nate Freeman is a virgin, Sam is certain. When they're shadow-striped beneath the bleachers during the pep rally, his hands palm her breasts through her shirt with no intent to please her: just to touch. Just to revel in being allowed to.

So when they're in the back seat of his dinged-up Corolla, parked beneath a burnt-out streetlight on a road that's noisy only with cicadas, Sam is armed with her knowledge, not afraid of being found out for the fumbling child she is. 

Nate's hand is sweaty, clammy, on the back of her neck when he tries to guide her down, to tip her face so she's looking at his zipper. Sam shakes it off, sits up straight. Puts on her game face, because if she can look confident in front of a judge in juvenile court, she can look confident in front of a junior who got the date of the Norman invasion wrong in history class. 

"Ladies first," Sam says, and lowers her lashes to look down at her own lap. She looks back at Nate and arches an eyebrow, nearly falters when she does – that arched brow isn't hers, it's borrowed, invoking Dean so neatly she's afraid he'll materialize in the driver's seat, glaring back at them in the rear-view mirror. Sam waits for Nate's response and knows that if he refuses, she'll be walking home on the side of the road, not because she doesn't want to suck this boy's dick (because she does, because who else could she learn on who'll be this uncomplicatedly grateful) but because Dean would be so frowningly, grim-mouthedly disappointed. 

Nate obliges. 

Sam doesn't know where her legs are. She doesn't know what her hands are clutching. She can't feel anything except what the boy is doing between her legs, and she can't think about anything except for how he needs to keep going. She doesn't know what she's saying but she hears the rhythm of it, so she bites down on her lip until all she hears are the boy's mouth noises. She sees him cradled down there, industrious and intent, and lets her head fall back with a heavy thud. At some point she realizes that the good feeling continues on _inside_ her – _inside_! She's so out of her head and so wet that she didn't even notice him slide one, then two fingers right on in there. They're thick in her now, but easy. 

And the secret, hiding behind Sam's bitten lip, is that Dean's here in the car anyway – here in this pleasure she wouldn't even have known to ask for. Wouldn't have known to expect. Wouldn't have known to want. 

Sam drips with sweat, shakes, and smiles wide. 

 

Sam leans against the door, weak-legged and still grinning, and falls inside when it opens up, sending her off-balance. Dean catches her by the elbow. 

"Do you know what time it is? Where were you? Are you drunk?" Dean's face is all lightning and thunder. He leans in to sniff her breath, then goes utterly still. 

Sam can't help it. She beams up at him. 

Dean stares at her for a long, long moment, and finally rolls his eyes. "Go to bed, you lush." She starts to go, and he reels her back in, strong arm around her shoulders. "Call me when you're gonna be late." Sam feels Dean's mouth press against the top of her head. "Or I will _kill_ you," he says, muffled. 

She leans her face against his worn-comfy T-shirt. "Sorry, Dean," she says softly. 

"Yeah," he huffs, breath warm on her scalp. 

Sam tries to get sleepy in her narrow bed, watching headlight-shadows striping the walls through the cheap plastic blinds on the windows. Maybe the next place they stay will actually get dark at night, easier to sleep. Maybe next time, she won't have her own room. Maybe next time, instead of spilling limbs over the edge of a twin bed, she'll be tangling and kicking at Dean, fighting over the blankets even though they're too old for that, really. She knows they're too old. 

Sam slips her eyes shut. The upholstery of Nate's shitty Corolla felt wrong, scratchy cloth under bare skin. Sam thinks about the slick leather of the Impala's seats, and she smiles.

#

It's a sticky, hot, dripping September when they move two states south and start over. Sam has to decide who she's going to be here. There are girls who will look at how she rolls her gym shorts. Boys who will look at her controversial legs.

Dean arrives too early one afternoon while Sam's sitting out with the other track and field girls, perched on the railings, long legs dangling. She hasn't had the chance, yet, to button her shirt up to her collarbone, to wipe off Harlot Red into a tissue. 

She shoulders her backpack, descends the steps and leans into the car window, face heating already in anticipation of what Dean'll say. 

He quirks an eyebrow, runs his gaze over her. "New look." 

Sam waits. Dean leans over and pushes open her door. "That's it?"

Dean looks at her like she's crazy. "You're still Sam," he says. Like it doesn't matter. Like being Sam is something special. "You coming or not?"

Sam slides into the passenger seat, leather slick and sticking to her bare thighs, too-small shorts riding high. She angles toward Dean instead of the window. "Yeah, I'm here."

###


End file.
